


In Loco Parentis

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Father Figures, Gen, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Regret, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg; after the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loco Parentis

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - There is depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

Greg shakes; his hands quivering as he writes the reports. One for Moriarty. One for Sherlock. He can’t look John in the eye. He is pissed at Donovan, at Anderson; they both know Sherlock was innocent, but they fucking pushed and pushed and pushed the Chief. They pushed his hand; they forced it. God, they just couldn’t get over the fucking fact he was more clever than they were.

Fucking hell. He hates himself. He hates every moment of his fucking existence right now. He feels useless, nothing, worse than nothing; his team had put Sherlock six feet fucking under; and his heart bursts with pain and agony.

His fucking job cut out his wife; his wife cut out his kids; his lack of children led him to care for Sherlock; and now his fucking job cut out the closest thing he felt to fucking consistent family. Kids on holidays and nothing else; but Sherlock existed at all times, a wanting, craving soul, needing guidance.

Even John Watson needed his approval; Greg recognized it the when the man was drug to a crime scene that first night, Sherlock’s silent cry for approval. And approve he did; honestly, he felt like he was being asked to approve a boyfriend; even though he wasn’t ever sure if they moved beyond platonic or not. It didn’t matter.

He brought Sherlock from the brink, he nurtured him, cared for him like a son and then he was complicit in pushing him off a goddamned bloody rooftop.

Greg finishes the paperwork.

He looks around his office; just a few mementos here and there. A picture of his kids. A trinket from his favorite football team. Not much. He gathers it; no sense in making someone else clean up his mess.

It is all gone. All lost.

His wife. His kids; they’d been poisoned against him. They hated him now. And now, Sherlock. Gone. Dead. Head caved in, and Greg felt like he had been the one who hammered it fucking in.

There is nothing left for him now. Demoted; the scorn of his colleagues.

The work was only really the last refuge he had left; and it too had abandoned him.

It is time.

-o-

It is Mycroft who finds him; slumped in his car; body poisoned with carbon monoxide. He watched all of Sherlock’s acquaintances; and when Greg misses his first shift of work; he sends out his drones to inspect.

Mycroft fails to mention this to Sherlock; no use upsetting the man in the field. John pours a fifth of whisky on his grave, then breaks the bottle furiously against his headstone.

-o-

Greg’s kids come to the funeral, with their grandparents, not his ex-wife.

He never sees their tears.

-o-

Mycroft comes to the funeral, and leaves a dozen white lilies to commemorate the man who saved Sherlock.

But Mycroft knows; even if it is only metaphorical; children almost always outlast their parents.


End file.
